For a dead man Johnny Dice was most active at that very moment. He was some five miles from the spot where Tony searched for his body. He was not alone. Some one else moved through the greasewood and sage ahead of him. Stealthily, too, Johnny felt. The two of them had been circling each other for some time. Both were anxious to avoid the other, but for this very reason, seemingly, their trails kept on crossing and recrossing.

It was uncanny. Johnny thought he was being tracked. By innumerable little deductions he knew that no animal made those sounds which alternately retreated and advanced behind and before him. It was a man! Who? The boy strained his eyes to catch sight of moving shadow or strange object.

He went unrewarded. It may have been that he was less cautious than usual. His mind was still blurred from the Basque’s shot. From the time Madeiras had appeared upon the tailings until the present moment, things had happened so quickly that Johnny could only grasp the essential facts.

The boy knew that Tony had whispered: “Play dead!” The Basque’s every movement had been made to the gallery. The next instant his gun had flashed fire. Johnny’s fall had not been acted. Madeiras had given him only a scalp wound, but the impact had been sufficient to send the boy off his balance. The ride down the moving tailings had torn Johnny’s clothing to shreds, but had not so much as scratched his skin. The stunt under other circumstances would have been good sport.

He had regained consciousness there in the choked caÑon. The Basque’s words had come back to him: “Play dead!”

His wound, a trivial injury, had confirmed his faith in the fact that the shooting was a game. Madeiras was too handy with a gun to have missed at that distance! Something had happened at the ranch—something which would be uncovered if certain parties thought him dead. It was plain enough to Johnny.

Feeling certain that soon some one would be searching for him, the boy had crawled over the loose rock and made his way down the caÑon to where it opened on a high plateau.

There he had rested—and worried about Molly. What was to stop Gallup from marrying her now? Could he depend on Tony to prevent that? Surely the Basque would not have gone to this desperate measure unless he was prepared to protect the girl. The boy had to stand on something, and he chose to do it on this hypothesis. A sensible decision.

But Johnny proceeded to make a bad mistake. Believing as he did that Tony wanted the world to consider him dead he hoped to better accomplish the hoax by hiding from the Basque; never for a moment realizing that Madeiras on not finding the body would jump to the conclusion that Johnny was buried under the avalanche of rock.

The boy’s first need was a horse. Being afoot in this country rendered him almost helpless. Kent and his men would surely be watching for him, so Johnny had headed for the Reservation as his best refuge.

Half an hour back his trail had crossed that of the man out there in the blackness. It had stopped any further thought of Molly and Madeiras.

And now a very curious thing happened. A thud and the sound of crackling brush to his right made Johnny turn in that direction. As he did so some one whispered in back of him:

“Hands up!”

The other man had tossed a rock into the sage and the noise it made as it landed had claimed the boy’s attention and left him an easy target.

“You turn him around now,” the voice said.

Johnny did as he was bid and found himself staring at Charlie Paul. The Indian’s eyes bulged. “You him, Johnny?” he cried.

“Charlie Paul! You damn near scairt me to death.”

“You no dead?” the Indian asked.

“Not yet, Charlie. What happened?”

It took the Indian some time to satisfy the boy’s curiosity.

“Gallup and Kent go ’way, eh?” Johnny questioned. “You sure?”

“Sure. Take horses, too. I watch; I see. All gone now.”

Johnny pondered for some minutes over the Indian’s information.

“Charlie Paul,” he said at last. “I tell you somethin’. You try understand him, Charlie. Savvy?”

Charlie grunted his assent.

“Well,” the boy began, “everybody think I’m dead—me. You no tell. The Basque, he good friend me. He not shoot for kill. Me and him play game, all same like viente y uno, you savvy? So! By and by I catch him man.” Johnny indicated a rope around his neck. “You no talk, eh?”

“No talk, me.”

“Good. I go back on mine. Plenty grub, plenty water there. You take him money. Mebbe you go Reservation; buy two horse. No tell Thunder Bird you buy him for me. You do that, Charlie Paul?”

“I go,” said the Indian. “Mebbe so tomorrow night I be back.”

Sundown the following day found Charlie back at the mine. Johnny had slept for hours, and soon after the Indian’s arrival he determined to ride to the Diamond-Bar and let Molly know that he was not dead. He could depend on her to keep his secret. To withhold the truth from her was needless cruelty.

Johnny circled the house before he approached it. A dim light burned in Molly’s room. Crawling to the side window he lay upon the ground listening for some sound which would tell him she was awake. Once or twice he fancied he heard a low sob or moan. Getting to his feet he fastened his hands on the sill above him and began drawing up his body so that he could see into the room.

His head and shoulders were even with the bottom of the window when a nail tore into his forearm. The pain of it forced a moan from his lips. It had a startling effect on the occupants of the room.

Molly was in bed; but not asleep. Old Kent sat beside her. Neither had been aware of the boy’s nearness until that mournful cry escaped his lips. They turned, mouths open, eyes wide.

The old man screamed as he saw Johnny. Pain and the dead weight of his body upon his arms had put a hideous expression on the boy’s face. His clothes were ragged, his face white, his hair uncombed. The dim light threw shadows which only magnified his weirdness.

“Take him away! Take him away!” Kent screeched. “Don’t you see him?” he wailed. “He’s there—in the window. Aw-w-w!” And he covered his face with his hands to shut out the gruesome sight.

Without knowing that he did it, Johnny flung a beseeching hand toward Molly. A shriek answered him and he saw her topple over upon her bed. The men were running from the bunk-house. There was nothing left for the boy to do but go.

From the cover of the willows by the creek he could see men moving about with lanterns. Cries came to him, and above others, the sound of Kent yelling:

“A ghost, I tell yuh! He’s come back to haunt me! Don’t laugh at me! Don’t laugh!” And Kent’s cry rose until it broke in a fit of choking.

“Take him inside,” came an order in Hobe’s voice. “He’s babblin’ like a child.”

The old man fought them off as they tried to lift him.

“He’s here!” he cried. “I heard him! Don’t let him git me. Molly, Molly, I didn’t do it. Gallup paid Madeiras to kill him. I swear I didn’t do it. I swear——”

The old man’s cries died away in a moan of anguish. The door banged and Johnny knew that they had taken him to his room.

A cold sweat broke out on Johnny. It had never occurred to him that this construction would be put on his appearance. Was it possible that this was the very thing Tony had had in mind when he shot him? The sight of him had frightened Kent out of his wits.

What would happen if he appeared before Gallup in the dead of night in similar fashion? Gallup had paid Madeiras to murder him.

Johnny cursed Gallup as he led his horse away from the ranch.

“Reckon I’ll pay you a visit, Aaron,” he said to himself. “And right soon, too. I may be dead, but I’ll put the fear of hell into your miserable old carcass. You’ll be thinkin’ of somethin’ else besides who you are goin’ to marry.”

Johnny’s one brief glance at Molly had shown him the girl tired, grief-stricken, hysterical. He wanted to tell her, now more than ever, that he lived; but to do so meant the loss of his best weapon against Kent and Gallup. Better for her to suffer now than to be forced into marrying Aaron Gallup.

Thoughts of Crosbie Traynor came to Johnny as he rode along. What had old Thunder Bird found out? The chief would have something to say when next they met.

“Strikes me we got quite a lot in common, Crosbie Traynor,” mused Johnny. “The world’s got both of us figured for dead. Only I’m alive to avenge myself.”